


Love, Theft, and Other Criminal Acts

by Ariaofthewinds



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Actual Disaster Bisexual Akira Kurusu, Actual Disaster Gay Goro Akechi, Alternate Universe - Actual Phantom Thieves (Persona 5), Bantering, Castle of Cagliostro shoutouts, Enemies to Lovers, I have loved phantom thieves since I was a child and I will love them til I die, M/M, No beta we die like REDACTED
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29307051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariaofthewinds/pseuds/Ariaofthewinds
Summary: Akira Kurusu never set out to be a phantom thief. It's not exactly a standard career goal, but here he is, righting wrongs, stealing priceless objects, and tormenting that lovely Interpol agent Goro Akechi. What could possibly go wrong?Actually, don't answer that.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 23
Kudos: 109





	1. "Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar, will return when the furniture is genuine.”

_“Arsene Lupin, gentleman-burglar, will return when the furniture is genuine!”_  
\-- Maurice LeBlanc

It has been said that a gentleman should not mix business and pleasure, but Akira was awful at following rules. Especially the unsaid ones. When he’d been a child, his house had been full of rules, of when to be quiet (always), when to do chores (always), and when to listen to his parents (always). Years later, after being disowned for certain choices and interfering in things that he shouldn’t have interfered in according to his parents, Akira still struggled to follow the rules. He didn’t like being quiet when someone was hurt, he didn’t like standing by when companies and corporations bled people dry, he didn’t like people who used their names and family history to get away with everything.

In retrospect, perhaps becoming a phantom thief was his only option. Akira’s career started small: he stole someone’s homework back for them. Other petty theft followed in high school, robbing the rich bullies, and giving to the poor. No one knew what he was up to back then besides his cat. Technically the cat belonged to the owner of the café that Akira worked slash lived at, but within a month of moving in, Sojiro, the owner, and Akira both acknowledged that Morgana belonged more to Akira than to the café. 

Futaba was the first to find out. She couldn’t resist wandering into other people’s computers, especially ones with locked files, and found Akira’s notes. Which honestly, was a pretty junior mistake on his end. He stopped recording his thefts after she confronted him and demanded answers. Admittedly, she demanded answers by texting him from an unlisted number and terrified the bejesus out of Akira and thus made a terrible first impression, but Akira wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world, though Futaba would definitely trade Akira for a limited edition Featherman figurine. She’d trade back for him. Eventually.

Ryuji came next along with Ann. A teacher at their school tormented students and terrorized the volleyball team. Ann needed someone to break into Kamoshida’s office and steal some documents and Ryuji had heard about Akira through the grapevine, some sort of semi shady forum that whispered how someone would steal for you if you left your request on a post. Akira never meant to meet Ann and Ryuji in person, but things happened, and soon enough the one man, one cat operation turned into four kids and a cat. 

They didn’t necessarily move up into bigger things then. They graduated from Shujin and stuck together, Ann traveling to go on modeling trips and Ryuji working his hardest to support his mom. Akira alone went to college for a degree in journalism. It felt important to have a reason to move, to slip from shadow to shadow. They didn’t have their first true heist until Akira’s second year, when Yusuke Kitagawa ran into Ann and asked her to model. 

Akira did not set out to become an art thief. Akira did not set out to become many things in life. He did his best to survive and to meet his parents’ expectations and Sojiro’s expectations, to keep his head down and not stir waves. But when Akira found out about Yusuke’s mentor, his father in all but blood, stealing from his protégé, Akira saw red. It ended with him sitting at the rickety table in LeBlanc’s attic with Ann, Ryuji, and Futaba at his side, looking at the blueprints of a museum gallery where the Sayuri is to be displayed. 

The Sayuri was Madarame’s maiden work, supposedly. For the last fifteen years, Madarame toted it as his artwork. But Yusuke’s story of plagiarism, of works stolen from himself, from students, cast a shadow over Madarame’s legacy. Futaba roamed through old articles, finding mention of a Kitagawa studying under Madarame sixteen years ago and her tragic death. More articles confirm her passing, the grieving Madarame taking in her only son, her legacy. Originally, they were going to only steal Yusuke’s artwork back. But Akira had an idea, a distraction for their true goal of stealing Yusuke’s art back, and the group was nothing if not mildly petty after years of being in the public school system. 

Akira insisted on leaving behind a card. Not to taunt, but to explain why the Sayuri was taken. If the police knew why the Sayuri was taken, maybe they would investigate Madarame’s fraud. Akira doubted it after his high school experience with the police, but there was always a chance. The better chance that someone online would run with it and ruin Madarame’s online reputation. In any case, Ryuji wrote the card and Akira helped. They fought over words and phrases and then they argued over style, until Morgana sat on the crafting supplies and they had to focus on chasing him off the table. The card was inelegantly elegant, printed on mid scale paper in the middle of a metro library using someone else’s card, someone who happened to leave their computer terminal without logging out. Ryuji drew a mask and top hat on the one side, a crude caricature of a face, but this was their first job. They didn’t know it wouldn't be their last, that the top hat and mask would be infamous the world over before five years passed. 

This was how it went. A week before the heist, Ann scoped out the museum. She slid in and out, a normal woman enjoying the art, flitting from portrait to portrait without a care. On her lapel was a flower and in that flower was a button camera that Futaba procured from somewhere. Akira learned long ago to not question where Futaba got things, especially things Akira needed. Ann scoped out the Sayuri, its pale face and unreadable eyes staring unseeing then drifted over to a painting across the way, a smaller, more abstract one. Like all of Madarame’s works, it was too unique, different from its compatriots in the way all of Madarame’s works were. Reds and blacks swirled around a glowing sworl of white and gold, so far from the rest of Madarame’s work that it fit in perfectly amidst the stolen trove. A placard to the side called it Hope. 

Futaba recorded the position of cameras around both paintings, of security, of windows and doors, of exits and entrances. They picked out a day in the final days of the exhibit, when nothing was scheduled to happen, when security was at its lowest. Ryuji parked the van two blocks over, hidden in the alleyway. Boxes sat in the back, hiding the case that they would load the portraits into. Years later, Akira wished he could say that he scaled the walls and snuck in through the roof. In reality, Futaba opened the back door from her computer and looped the camera feeds, hiding Akira from all eyes except physical ones. 

His first costume was no costume. He dressed in black from head to toe and hid his face beneath a simple black mask Ryuji found at a dollar central. It screamed practical, it screamed cheap, and it screamed illegal. Only the shoes were special, the soles padded to reduce the sound of Akira’s feet. He stuck to the carpets as well, letting the shadows obscure him until he reached the gallery. No man stood within and the guards wouldn’t return for twenty minutes. It was the slow time, the late time when everyone slept and the guards cared more for their breaks than for their jobs, when only the stars and the moon hung overhead and even the city lights grew dimmer. Akira took Yusuke’s painting first, replacing it with the small blank canvas they’d procured from Madarame’s studio via Yusuke. Once the painting was safely ensconced in Akira’s bag and the replacement hung in its place, Akira crossed to the Sayuri. 

He made history. 

The morning news blared out about the Sayuri’s theft. Pictures of the calling card rattled over the internet, speeding through Twitter and Facebook, and flashed on the television news. Akira, driven safely away by Ryuji to the hiding point, scrolled on his phone with a smirk on his face. The police couldn’t find the Sayuri, and no one paid attention to the stolen Hope. Only Yusuke knew where that painting was, having accepted it with trembling hands and a promise to repay the debt he owed. 

After the first heist, they all sat around Akira’s table once more. Ann stared at Ryuji, Ryuji stared at Yusuke, Yusuke stared at Futaba, and they all stared at Akira as he read aloud the charges being brought against Madarame for fraud, even as the art world mourned the loss of Sayuri. The message on the calling card, the simple truth that Sayuri had been stolen from its original artist like the rest of Madarame’s work, and the internet boiled until there was no option for the police but to take action and investigate. 

Madarame’s star fell and Yusuke’s… well it didn’t rise per se, but he made friends and worked on his art so it sort of staggered vaguely upward. No one suspected the rising star of Yusuke Kitagawa to be entangled with that of the Phantom Thieves. No one suspected that he designed the calling card for their next heist, crafting it and every card that followed with an artist’s eye. Yusuke even lent his artistry when needed assisting with the preparations for the heists, making masks and assembling the materials needed for the thefts to happen. 

Each theft brought them more cries for help. The people Akira and his Phantom Thieves helped ranged the world over: artists with stolen work, families robbed by war, the poor crushed underneath the heel of the rich. What started with helping Yusuke became a surreptitious group to help provide those without power the leverage needed to help those who hurt them. And if they took a little on the side to help fund the operations, who could blame them? People gotta eat after all, and the rich wouldn’t mind the loss of a pearl necklace or some artwork that they’d paid far too much for.

But for every person who hailed them as modern day Robin Hoods, another decried them as anarchists. Akira was not surprised when the police made a task force to catch them. After all, it was a bad look for the police to be duped so many times by one criminal group. He just didn’t expect the man they put in charge. 

Goro Akechi, much like the Phantom Thieves, was a rising star himself. He’d started as little more than a teenage sensation, a polite young man who’d gotten caught up in an investigation and managed to solve it, to the young star of Interpol after he’d stopped a terrorist attack on Japanese soil. The upper management expected great things from him, the public adored him and his justice, and the Phantom Thieves managed their plots with the expectation that Goro Akechi would burst in at absolutely the worst possible moment.

Akira liked it that way. After two years of the government being unable to stop the thieves, he’d started to get a little bored. It sounded awful in his head; how could Akira be bored when he was helping people? The routine proved to be Akira’s biggest issue. Two years into their activities, the Thieves had a pattern. Futaba and Yusuke researched, Ann scoped out the target, Ryuji got Akira into place, and Akira stole whatever they were after, whether it was art or deeds or misappropriated artifacts. Security was flummoxed by Akira’s own skills or Futaba’s hacking or just by being incompetant, so when someone actually was waiting for Akira at the site of the heist, Akira’s heart skipped a beat. 

Delacroix was the second of three targets. The first had been a movie producer who used his connections to arrange for politicians to abuse young actors and actresses. The thieves stole a hard drive and released its data containing details about underground trafficking to the world after leaving their calling card. The card promised more information would be coming soon, and declared their intention to target the politician Matthieu Delaxcroix next for his part. He worked as a member of the French government and served as the producer’s contact in the government. Delacroix denied any in part in the dealings and insisted the Thieves were slandering him. 

Akira intended to prove Delacroix wrong. Futaba found the trail leading back to Delacroix, and knew they needed his hard drive to find the next link in the chain. That was why Akira snuck in through the second floor window via a trellis after sneaking by the guards in the gardens. After two years of thievery, Akira had much better equipment. A grappling hook, an actual outfit consisting of a black coat and a form fitting grey vest with red gloves and a white domino mask with black edging the eye holes to help hide his identity, a variety of tools for what ifs and perhaps and a few more for flair. After all, what was a phantom thief without a little flair? 

Futaba whispered instructions into the communicator in Akira’s ear of which way to go, when the cameras were safely bypassed, when the doors opened and closed in the distance. Akira kept track of the guards, kept track of the locks he picked to get through to Delacroix’s office. 

The door opened too easily. Futaba disabled the magnetic lock while Akira took care of the mechanical one. The cherry oak door swung open soundlessly. Akira stood still for a moment, his head cocked to the side, before he took a step into the room. No one sat at the desk. Only a computer crouched, powered down and waiting. The USB stick weighed heavily in Akira’s pocket. Five minutes. All he had in here was five minutes at most. His eyes swung about the room; the moon shone in through the window, the books perched silently on the shelves that lined the room. Akira shut the door behind him and sidled up to the computer, stepping on the balls of his feet to prevent his shoes from clicking on the floor. 

The computer whirred to life and Akira inserted the USB stick into the port when something clicked softly in the distance. 

Old manors had secret passages in the same way swiss cheese had holes. They connected rooms across the building, creating mazes and unmapped challenges. Akira used them sometimes, when they could find accurate information on them. But no plans of Delacroix’s mentioned secret passages, and no blueprint indicated a door that led into this room besides the door Akira came in. There was no denying there was a bolt hole in the east wall and there was no denying there was a man standing in the bolt hole, a gun pointed straight at Akira’s head. 

“Hands up please,” the man said sweetly, his eyes flashing crimson in the pale moonlight. Soft brown hair fell about his face and his brown trench coat reminded Akira of all those old cartoons he’d watched as a kid about detectives. On his chest a badge caught the moonlight. Akira couldn’t read it, but the shape would have given it away if the man’s tone hadn’t. “I don’t want you taking anything after all.” 

Akira raised his hands, the bar on the screen informing him that he had two minutes left before the USB finished copying the entire hard drive. The USB was a Futaba special after all. Futaba spoke in Akira’s ear; he understood nothing of his sister’s talk, his eyes enraptured by the young man who stood half in and half out of the shadows of the bolt hole. The moonlight cut across fine cheekbones, his skin unblemished. Akira smirked before he realized it, pitching his voice low. “Hello there, officer. Can I ask what brings you here tonight?”

“Oh you know. Just getting some fresh air.” The muzzle of the gun never wavered, the detective’s hands stiller than ice on a pond in midwinter. “Now, if you would please step away from the computer, I believe it’s time for your reign of terror to end.” 

“Reign of Terror? I didn’t realize we were in the 1800’s.” Akira remained where he was, his hands held up in the air. Less than three minutes; he could stall for that long. 

The man’s expression didn’t change, remaining in that placid, pleasant mask where the smile never reached his eyes. “What else do you call your string of robberies? Please step away from the computer before I have to do something we both regret.”

Akira tilted his head. Window behind him, the door to the rest of the mansion on his left. Both were obvious leaving points, but which had the higher chance of success? Neither if he didn’t manage to leave with the data intact and without the calling card. “Oh? Like what?” 

“Why shoot you, of course. I don’t think either of us would like for you to be injured, but I can’t risk you getting away. You’re a hard man to find.” 

Akira envied how still the other man held his face. He didn’t need a mask at all to be unreadable and unknowable. Though having envy as a first reaction to the face of the man threatening to shoot him was probably not a good first reaction for Akira to have. Akira made a note to talk it out with Morgana later after bribing the cat with sushi. “Usually people talk to me first before they want to shoot me.” 

The only person who had ever wanted to shoot Akira was Ann Takamaki after he’d stolen the last crepe, but this man didn’t need to know that. The man didn’t even blink. “I’d rather skip the pleasantries.” 

“Unfortunate.” A minute left, Akira could do this. “We could have had such a lovely conversation about--” 

“I don’t talk with criminals. Now, you are under--” 

“How lovely your eyes are,” Akira continued, ignoring the man. “Honestly, such a lovely ruby--” 

The man blinked at him, slowly. “I’m holding you at gunpoint.” 

“You are, yes,” Akira replied cheerfully, taking stock of how the man’s eyes flicked from the gun to Akira. “Hard to ignore that. But I think we can still work things out.”  
Thirty seconds. 

“There’s nothing to work out. I’m here to arrest you for breaking and entering, for theft, for inciting a reign of terror against citizens, and a variety of other crimes. You will step away from the computer.” The man’s eyes narrowed, his eyes going ruby hard. “There’s nothing to debate here.”

Akira obliged, stepping a half foot away and angling his body slightly to the side as he scrolled through the options in his head. Futaba’s voice came through the headset. “The cameras are down still and security is coming towards you now. You’ll have to fly fast.”  
Fly fast indeed. 

Ten seconds. 

“That far enough, detective? You know, you never gave me your name.” Akira grinned, counting down in his head. 

“A step closer to the wall please. Place your hands flat against it.” The man pointed with his gun, tipping the muzzle at the portion of the wall not covered in books. A portrait of Delacroix hung, its frame gilded, and two wall lights framed it. The wall itself sunk into the shadow, whatever day time color it was faded to a nightly black. Akira stared at it and then back at the computer. The progress bar was full. Perfect.

Akira stepped as if to follow the man’s instructions, his hands moving to embrace the wall. Steps echoed to Akira’s right; the man followed him. Akira placed his hands against the wall and flexed his fingers. His gear sat heavy in his pockets; he’d have to be fast. Behind him, the man moved near silently, his footsteps stopping. A moment passed, and leather scritched as the man holstered the gun. Akira’s heart pounded in his ears as he waited. One moment more, just…

The handcuffs clinked, and Akira moved. 

The smoke bomb erupted at their feet and the man yelped. Akira spun and struck, slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest and knocked him down. He grabbed the gun and tossed it away before the man struck back, striking out with his fists. Akira twisted past the man, grabbing the arm and using the man’s momentum to send him to the floor. The blow stunned the man for a moment and Akira took advantage. He slid the calling card into the man’s pocket, pushing back to his feet. He sprinted to the computer, throwing another smoke bomb to be safe. Akira ripped the USB out of the port, the device sliding out easily. and dashed for the window. 

Behind Akira, the man roared, his feet pounding against the floorboards. It was too late; Akira crashed through the window, the panes shattering around him as he pulled out his grappling hook. He fired it and it caught on the roof. Akira swung down with the grace of a cat, landing on the ground running. Around him, the grounds erupted with shouts and calls, and in his ear, Futaba shouted directions.

Akira spared a glance back. The shattered window framed the man, smoke drifting out in spirals. The wind caught his brown hair, sending the strands fluttering in the wind. They flitted in front of the man’s face; he paid them no mind. Even meters away and a story below, the blaze of ruby eyes incinerated Akira where he stood. 

“You won’t get away with this!” the man screamed, gripping the calling card in his hand. The red and black cardstock shone brilliantly against the pale expanse of his skin, catching the moonlight.

Akira couldn’t help the smirk. It spread wide and far, splitting his face as a thrill thrummed in his chest and rattled his ribs. He raised his hand and waved jauntily at the man. “It’s been fun, officer! See you around!” 

The man screamed something that the wind stole. Akira laughed, his heart racing as he escaped. 

Ryuji spent most of the ride home crowing about their luck. Futaba boxed Akira’s ears when he got back to the hideout before snatching the usb and running off to work her magic. The rest of the Phantom Thieves crowded around Akira to hear his story, and Akira recounted it. He let his mouth run on autopilot, his mind elsewhere. It stuck on the man who confronted him, his soft brown hair, his volcanic eyes, the sight of him framed in the window as the moon watched overhead. 

Akira hoped they’d meet again. After all, he hadn’t gotten the stranger’s name. 

He learned the man’s name the day Futaba released the information about the politicians involved in the sex ring. The thieves huddled around Futaba’s screen and watched as the news reported about the break in, and the politicians whose names were tied to the released data. They also reported on how the police were investigating the allegations, which was when the camera switched to a video feed from the Interpol office. Most of the thieves focused on the speaker, the current head of the fraud and theft unit. Akira zoned in on the man who stood behind the speaker. There was no hint of fire today in the man’s eyes; they were polite, clear, unreadable, his uniform neatly pressed. No trace of rage the man framed in the window felt remained on his face, even when he stepped forward to explain what happened at Delacroix’s manor. It was a heavily edited account and portrayed the police in a better light than they deserved, but when someone asked about how the thief escaped, the man’s hands tightened imperceptibly around the edges of the platform. 

Akira smiled as the banner below revealed the man’s name.

Goro Akechi. Akira mouthed the name to himself and found he liked the feel of the name on his tongue. He raised his glass to the screen, where Akechi promised that he would catch the Phantom Thieves and protect the citizens from their tyranny. The challenge was set, and Akira would exceed every expectation. 

The Phantom Thieves continued on with their deeds. They hit the third target and caused a stir in the corporate sector, and moved on to other targets. Akechi followed, never catching them, but always cleaning up the messes the Phantom Thieves left in their wake. It became a sort of game for Akira, to leave enough information behind for Akechi to catch on to other smaller plots that the thieves didn’t have time to handle or lacked the connections to handle properly. 

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Akechi asked three years after they met. Akechi remained unaware of where Akira was specifically. He only knew that Akira was somewhere in the room where the jewelry was kept in the heart of this American museum . The detective stood in front of the display case, his arms crossed. Akira didn’t have the heart to tell Akechi that those were fake gems and what Akira was here for was the heirloom pocket watch in the display next to it. It all had to wait for the right moment and right now, it wasn’t the right moment. 

“Leaving me a trail to find other crimes, like throwing treats to a dog?” Akechi continued, his eyes swivelling about the room. 

It was not like throwing treats to a dog; Akira liked Akechi and liked keeping him around. It was… well maybe it was a little like throwing treats to a dog. Incentivizing the detective to keep hunting the Phantom Thieves. Akira didn’t want to train another detective after putting so much effort into this one. It wasn’t like Akechi didn’t also throw bait at Akira. Like what he was doing right now. Standing alone in a dimly lit room, arms folded primly, his gun holstered at his side. Behind him the fake gems gleamed, sparkling beneath the display lights. 

Compared to the diamond necklace, the pocket watch was nothing. It didn’t even merit it’s own case in the heart of this mansion turned museum. Instead, the aged silver sat quietly amidst the diamonds, rubies, and pearls that the rest of the case housed, its filigree leaves delicate in a well loved way. Only the sapphire’s on the clock hands allowed its presence, and the watch seemed aware of it. The hands clicked delicately, time marching on and making the only other sound in the room besides Akechi. 

“I am not a patient man, Joker,” Akechi continued. “I know you’re around, waiting for just the right moment.” 

Akira waited. The detective was right, after all. This was not the right moment. Futaba hadn’t messaged Akira that everything was in place, so in the vents Akira stayed. 

Akechi’s fingers twitched, not towards his gun, but as if to start tapping. “Your calling card said you were going to steal the National Museum’s treasure, and what else could--?” Akechi stopped mid sentence, and Akira settled in to watch the detective think. 

First, his brows snapped together as his brain kicked into overdrive. His fingers flexed against his still folded arms, and a scowl broke through the princely demeanor. Akechi turned to squint at the diamonds and then turned around to the rest of the room. It wasn’t a big room. In fact, it was one of the smallest in the museum, tucked carefully away behind other exhibits that formed a barrier between the gems and any outside threat. Akira traversed through a hall of fossils, a hall of taxidermy, and a hall of ordinary rocks before he reached this room in the vents. “If all of the gems in this room are fake, I am going to murder you for the amount of overtime that I am going to have to put in after I arrest you.” 

Akechi, bless his heart, probably would murder him in volcanic hot blood that never appeared on his television appearences. A pity, honestly, but Akechi would have to catch him first. Luckily not all the gems were fake. Maybe half were, and definitely not the little pocket watch that Akira came to steal. That one was heartbreakingly real, stolen from its owner fifty years ago when its owner would not bow down to a judge. Hifumi Togo commissioned the thieves to steal it back for her grandmother before her grandmother passed. Time ticked on endlessly, uncaringly, and Akira did what little he could to ease the aches. And if Akira happened to blow open a major forgery operation being run by the museum curator and a few cronies while doing that, power to him.

Power to Akira as long as Akechi didn’t ruin things by cottoning on too early. The detective eyed each piece now, moving from his place to circuit the room. He couldn’t lean too close; the glass kept him away, but the glare of his red eyes did its best to melt the obstacle between him and his questioning. Akechi was smart, but no amount of smarts could let his eyes tell the difference between a real gem and a convincing fake. Still, the detective’s intense interrogation of each gem made Akira’s stomach cartwheel.

“The cameras are looping, ‘kira,” Futaba’s voice cut into Akira’s thoughts. “Soon as Akechi’s back is turned, you can go.” 

Distractions didn’t work anymore; Akechi learned how to gauge when to go and when to stay with them. It made the heists harder, but Akira relished it. He shifted silently in place, his grey eyes focused, the calling card sharp against his chest. A step further, he urged Akechi silently. A step further and--

Akechi turned to the farthest case, his eyes narrowed as he strode over. Akira slunk out of the vent and dropped behind the watch’s case. It took a half second for Futaba’s device to open the back of the glass cabinet. The device emitted a frequency that canceled out the alarm that should have sounded from the case. Akira’s eyes remained on Akechi’s back as the man bent over the far case, his coat draped over the slope of his back. The thief took a moment to admire the lean lines before he reached out and replaced the watch with the calling card Yusuke made. 

Akira sighed in his head and shut the door to the case, taking a moment to admire the way Akechi’s hair brushed over the nape of his neck. Akechi hadn’t even noticed him. before he slid the watch into the same chest pocket the calling card sat in moments before. It was child’s play to hook his hands back up into the vent and Akira hauled himself up. 

He was halfway up when Akechi finally turned around. Akira smiled, the corners of his lips turning up, a massive grin for him. “Hello detective!” 

Akechi charged straight at him, his eyes on fire. Akira laughed, pulling his body the rest of the way up into the vent and started to crawl. What he didn’t expect was a hand to grab his coat tails. Akira choked back the yelp and hauled himself forward. Tried to anyways. Akechi managed to get into the vent with Akira, only managed to get his head, an arm and part of his chest in. It was enough of course; Akechi gripped Akira’s coattails firmly, his fingers buried in the dark leather. “You’re under arrest.” 

“Why hello there detective! Fancy meeting you here.” Akira grinned, winking at the other man. 

“You are under arrest for larceny, forgery, and… Stop wiggling!” 

Akira did not stop wiggling. Vents rarely had good hand holds. It came of being made of sheets of metal melded together at seams. But Akira was a stubborn man, as Sojiro often informed him when Akira visited LeBlanc, and so Akira pulled himself forward with his own convictions. If he dragged one Goro Akechi further into the vent with him, well that was a problem for future Akira. Thirty seconds in the future Akira, that lucky man. 

“You’re not getting away this time. I’m going to figure out all of the forgeries in that room and you’re going to jail for your crimes.” Akechi’s eyes bored a hole into Akira’s head as his grip tightened on the leather hard enough for the leather to creak. 

Akira tsked, dragging his body a half inch forward before Akechi’s weight stopped him. “Wanting a cake and eating it too? Greedy, greedy.”

“It’s not being greedy, it’s doing my job, you ingrate,” Akechi hissed, pulling on Akira’s coat. Akira slid back an inch before he caught himself. Untenable; undoubtedly Akechi called for backup before chasing Akira up into the vent (or trying to at least). Akira had to ditch Akechi and skedaddle before the rest of the police showed up. A branch in the vent was five feet away if Akira judged the distance right, and another branch was five feet down the left branch. If Akira could get that far, he’d be home free; Futaba’s voice informed him that she still had control over the electronics. 

“My apologies. Let me try again.” He’d have to be fast, and hope that he could hit hard enough to make Akechi’s grip slacken. Akira tapped his lip. “Eager then?” 

“I am not eager.” Akechi said with enough knives in his voice to kill several men, their dogs, and their grandmothers. 

“Oh, I am truly doing terrible tonight,” Akira lamented, right before he slammed his foot into Akechi’s hand and drove it into the vent’s wall. Akechi hissed, his eyes going wide, and Akira fled up the vent, out of reach. 

“The necklace is definitely a fake, Detective! I trust you know what to do!” Akira laughed at the sound of Akechi slamming his hand into the metal of the vent. “Until next time!”

“I will catch you, you absolute trash heap of a thief!” Akechi roared after Akira. 

Akira disappeared around the vent corner still laughing. Not a perfect heist, but a successful one. Hifumi cried when Akira handed her her grandmother’s watch and hugged him, promising to help the Phantom Thieves whenever they needed it. Akira didn’t linger long for that meeting; Akechi had the force out in full force, both for Akira and for the other criminal. Akechi arrested the curator two weeks later, appearing on the television to announce the curator’s arrest and the escape of the Phantom Thieves. Akira sat in LeBlanc serving coffee to the patrons while the news ran in the background, trying to not feel smug. Akechi’s face never broke free of the benign smile, his eyes softer than swan feathers. No rage, no anger, until the very end. One of the reporters in the crowd raised a hand. “Sir, do you think you’ll ever catch the Phantom Thieves? It’s been three years...”

Heat flashed for the briefest of milliseconds, wild and untamed in Akechi’s eyes, before the detective reigned it in, before the detective returned to being the detective prince. Akira’s heart jackrabbited in his chest at the flash, at the reminder of who Akechi could be, of who Akechi hid. “They’ve been very lucky so far, but I assure you we are doing our best to apprehend these criminals and all other criminals we find in the course of our investigation.”

Akira smirked, turning to clean some used cups. A job well done indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for reading! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I'm doing my best to keep working on the next one and hopefully it should come out some time in the next two weeks or so. I work as a teacher so my time is pretty swamped, but I do so love Phantom Thieves.
> 
> Please leave a comment or a kudos if you liked what you read. Otherwise, take care of yourselves! Drink some water, eat a snack, get some rest.


	2. A good journalist never reveals her sources.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Phantom Thieves to take on their next big heist. But as they settle in, some oddities begin to pop up...

_“A good journalist never reveals her sources.”_  
-Fabienne, Netflix’s Lupin 

Things changed. Slowly, surely. The Phantom Thieves made their livings off of their thefts and the other small jobs they held, they stayed ahead of Akechi and the rest of Interpol and Akira flirted with Akechi, but time moved. Jobs came and went, they grew older, and Akira knew that eventually they would have to slow down. Not any time soon; they weren’t that old. But nest eggs started to look good, and so he began to investigate items that would net the thieves a prize big enough to rest their laurels on.

That was why they ended up in the small country of Hoshi. It was a small island far enough away from Japan and the mainland and not far enough out from either to be worthless as a tactical site. Its wealth came from the pearl industry and the clever corporate schemes that its leader, Kunikazu Okumura implemented as he nationalized and streamlined the nation’s economy. Tourism was a highlight; thousands upon thousands streamed into Hoshi to relax, to escape, and it was the perfect place for backroom deals that definitely never, ever existed. 

Akira and Futaba arrived a week after Ann and Ryuji and three days before Yusuke. Ann had an invite for the wedding of Okumura’s only daughter, and Ryuji was her bodyguard, an easily believable lie with how strong he was. Futaba came on vacation, supposedly recommended by her last client and Akira… 

Akira came to cover the wedding of Haru Okumura, his trusty camera in hand. It was a once in a lifetime affair. Kunikazu Okumura had no other children and a massive business conglomerate he ran on top of running Hoshi. All of his material wealth would pass to Haru upon his death, and so Haru’s hand was sought after by men and women of all stripes. In the end, a businessman from Japan won it. Supposedly, the two were madly in love, but the Thieves had their doubts. Speculation ran rampant that it was a match made in finances, a move to consolidate the business relationship between Hoshi and the fast food conglomerates of Japan. Sugimura, the fiance in question, was the heir to several and a known playboy, which fed the gossip fires. 

The Thieves knew all of this, for multiple reasons. One, Akira liked to keep track of trouble, and nothing spelled trouble like corporate monopolies merging to try to become even larger corporate monopolies. Two, someone had hired the Thieves to kidnap Haru Okumura before her wedding and paid enough that no ransom needed to be demanded. They’d even paid Futaba up front, wiring the money through several fake accounts before it arrived in the dummy account Futaba set up expressly for this purpose. If it had been anyone else, the Thieves would have turned it down. 

But how many kidnappees pay you to kidnap them? Not many. Not that Haru knew that the Thieves knew. She’d sent all the communication encrypted and through several shell identities, but that was all kiddy games for Futaba, who spent most of her free time hacking governments for fun and profit. But in the true spirit of Phantom Thief noblesse oblige, they did not inform her that they knew. Instead, they began to make plans. 

Akira slid through the crowds, stalls bustling about him. His camera hung around his neck, a reminder of what he had gone to school so long ago for. He still wrote articles; being a journalist was a good cover. Not as good as Ann’s career as a model, which got her through doors that would often be closed even to a journalist, but good enough. The weight of the camera in his hands, its stocky black sides and thick lens comforted Akira as much as a set of lockpicks when he held the camera up to his eye. No one saw Akira through his glasses or his camera, and that was how he liked it. His thief persona, Joker as the media called him, got all the attention Akira wanted. As a journalist, he could slide through crowds taking photos of Hoshi’s architecture, its people, its tourists, hell, he could even take a photo of Goro Akechi--

Wait. Akira swung his camera back around, moving away from the sea dragon statue that sat on top of the plaza’s fountain to the figure that stood at the fountain’s base. Detective Goro Akechi smiled benignly into the water, flicking a coin between his fingers. He wiggled it back and forth as he stared down into the still waters, his chestnut hair unruffled the crowd roaring about him. Akira snapped a photo without thinking, and then felt bad. The detective didn’t even know Akira was here. He didn’t know that the Phantom Thieves were here; Yusuke was still painting the calling card to be delivered to Okumura three days before the wedding. So why was Akechi here? 

Akira dredged his memory for anything. Did Akechi have reason to suspect this wedding would be a target? Had the thieves somehow betrayed their hand? Or was it pure luck? Was it…  
Akira shook his head. There was no use in worrying yet. Now was the time for answers, and even when in the middle of the crowd, Detective Akechi stood alone. A pang ran through Akira’s heart, and before he could stop himself, he crossed the plaza, weaving through and under and over the rest of the tourists. 

“Are you going to make a wish?” he asked quietly, sliding up to stand by his rival. Akechi froze; only for a moment, before the coin resumed its steady march through the gaps of his fingers. 

“Whatever makes you say that?” The television voice was overpowering, coating Akechi’s words with a veneer of plastic that Akira had never heard before in real life. Or at least had never heard this thick before. 

Akira didn’t comment on it. Instead, he gestured at the fountain before him. “It’s a wishing fountain and you’ve got a coin in your fingers. It would be odder if you didn’t.” 

Akechi’s eyes flashed through several Akechi-only emotions that Akira recognized by dint of years of stealing things from under this man’s nose than by actual intuition. “Perhaps I’m admiring the view?” 

“Could be,” Akira said agreeably, digging out a coin from his own pocket. Had to keep some form of excuse going. It wouldn’t be good if Akechi questioned why Akira came over, even if there was no way Akechi could recognize him. Akira wasn’t in his Joker costume after all, and he slumped normally, bent in like a twig in a maelstrom behind his glasses and his unruly mop  
of hair. “But surely you’ve got a wish?” 

Akechi’s throat bobbed as he ate a sentence too derogatory for the public consumption. Akira watched in fascination as Akechi flicked through several options in quick succession, his face unchanging before he finally settled on an answer. “Perhaps. But I’m not sure that throwing a coin will do anything besides be inane and childish.” 

“What would the harm be?” Akira smiled, a small little smile that curved up the corners of his lips. “Worst case is you’re down a yen.” 

Akira flicked his coin in, the silver landing in the water with an inglorious plop. There existed a multitude of things he could wish for. An easy last job, a good last job, wealth for his friends, health for his friends, so many things. What he found himself wishing for was incredibly selfish. He wished for a little more time with Akechi. After all, if the thefts ended, why would the detective need to pursue Akira any more? The detective had a reputation now for solving missed crimes even without the Phantom Thieves’ assistance. Interpol might not have promoted Akechi yet, but Akira knew they would. They had to. Akechi had the highest case closed rate in the department, higher than any of his peers and deserved a promotion far more than anyone. Akira wasn’t sure why it was taking so long. The last person to get a promotion possessed a far lower case closed rate and only worked at Interpol for two years. It made no sense, and Akira--

Akira stopped his brain from going further down the rabbit hole. It wasn’t like Akira kept active tabs on the detective’s job progress. Not at all. He made Futaba do it. 

“See,” he said aloud instead. “Easy.” 

Akechi stared silently, one brow slowly arcing up behind his bangs. Akira’s grin widened and he leaned in, his hand coming to rest upon his camera. “Your turn.” 

“No thank you,” Akechi stood still, facing the fountain. “I was thinking, not wishing.” 

“You could still make a wish. Like… for a nice vacation?” 

“It is none of your business, sir.” Akira admired how Akechi could make a smile feel like a frown. It would have chased anyone else away. 

Unfortunately for Akechi, this was not the harshest comment the detective pointed Akira’s way. “One little wish won’t hurt you.” 

“Why are you bothering me?” Akechi near snapped, the plastic breaking over his voice. Akira smirked inside his head. That was closer to the detective he knew. 

“You’ve been standing here for at least ten minutes, just looking at the water. I’ve gotten all the photos I need, so I was curious.” Akira wiggled his camera, his very nice professional camera, and Akechi’s gaze dipped to it. His mask remained in place, his features unchanging. One day, Akira would smash that mask completely. That he promised himself. 

“I was caught up in my thoughts. I just happened to be standing here. I shouldn’t be speaking to journalists; I don’t want you interfering in my business.” The worse words hovered unspoken, words reserved for privacy, when someone couldn’t record the Detective using invective.  
So Akechi was here on business. Akira tucked that information away for future reference. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to interfere. I’m just a nosy busybody.” Akira rubbed the back of his neck. 

“You’re just doing your job,” Akechi replied evenly, as if that wasn’t supposed to be a massive insult to journalists everywhere via busybody implications. 

“Nah, I’d be asking more intrusive questions if I was. You should really make a wish though. It’ll be fun.” Akira pivoted on his heel, his wish made, his escape imminent. “See you around, Detective.” 

Akechi’s narrowed eyes bored a hole into Akira’s back. Akira smirked, putting a little jump in his step and waved goodbye over his shoulder. Business as usual. 

Akira told the rest of the Thieves at their very secret meeting that night about Akechi being in town. They met in Futaba’s hotel room, which she managed to convert into a miniature computer lair within twenty four hours of arriving. Futaba was nothing if not single minded in her organizing habits when computers were involved. Take out containers sat between computer cables, data flowed over computer screens, and the thieves huddled together at the coffee table. Or at least, all of them but Yusuke did. Yusuke sat in a corner painting in the corner that Futaba designated, the nearby electronics all hidden behind curtains of plastic sheets. Yusuke committed to his art and commitment did not include paying attention to where the spatter went. 

“So Akechi’s in town?” Ann asked around her strawberry crepe. No one knew how she got people to deliver crepes. None of the thieves asked. Sometimes, it was better to just accept Ann Takamaki’s ability to procure crepes out of thin air like a Hogwarts witch. 

“Yep. Saw him myself” Akira curled into his chair catlike, legs tucked under his body. His feet would be asleep soon, but until the needles rolled in, it would be comfortable. 

“But Interpol hasn’t mobilized him.” Futaba squatted on her computer chair, crunching the data on the screen before her. “No emails, nothing. Not even a formal vacation request from Akechi to the main office. Why is he here then?” 

Ryuji chomped through a chicken leg, tearing the meat off with his teeth. “A hunch?” 

“Would Interpol let him come on a hunch?” Ann scooted away from Ryuji to avoid the flying debris. The distance between Akira and Ryuji kept the former safe. 

“Maybe?” Akira tapped his lip. “He definitely was in his television persona.” 

Ann squinted at Akira, pausing in her destruction of the crepe. “How do you know that?” 

“He went up and talked to him.” Futaba ignored Akira’s squawk. “I saw him on the CCTV.”

“I was investigating,” Akira mumbled, ignoring Ryuji’s yell of what and Ann’s crinkled eyes. “That’s it.” 

“Uh huh.” Futaba hmm’d, and Akira knew that he would pay for this later. “Investigating his ass?” 

Never mind, Akira paid for it now. “I didn’t look at his ass. The angle wasn’t right.” 

Ryuji groaned. “Man, don’t make shit complicated. It’s already going to be a nightmare to get Haru out of the party without Akechi seeing.” 

“How do we know if he’ll be at the party?” Akira shot back. 

“Boys, you’re both pretty, but we know he’ll be at the party. He’s Akechi; he has to be here for a reason, and the only reason he’d be here is that wedding.” Ann patted Ryuji on the knee. “Plus, you know Akira can’t help himself. He’s a bisexual disaster.” 

“I am right here,” Akira whined, and the rest of the thieves sans Yusuke burst into laughter. Yusuke merely chuckled as he applied another stroke to his work. “Thank you for not mocking me Yusuke, you’re my only hope.” 

“Hm?” Yusuke blinked, rising out of his focus for the briefest of moments. “Is something the matter?” 

“No, go back to work Yusuke. I got this.” Akira flashed a thumbs up at Yusuke, who merely nodded. 

“I trust you have the detective well in hand,” the artist said, already turning back to his work. “After all, you can hardly take your eyes off of him.” 

The rest of the thieves fell further into laughter. Akira sank into his chair praying the leather would consume him whole. “You are all menaces. Menaces, I swear. I didn’t even oogle Akechi a little. I was being a good leader and investigating why our arch nemesis is here.” 

“Your arch nemesis,” Futaba corrected, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Anyways, I found his hotel information. More like a cheap motel, so he must not be here on company dime. If you give me a moment, I can look at his financials...” 

“Why isn’t Interpol getting involved?” Ryuji finished off his wing and moved onto the next. “Wouldn’t they want in on this?” 

“You’d think. Maybe they don’t want to tip their hand? We haven’t sent the calling card yet, so…” Ann finished her crepe, reaching out for the next one. 

“Recent Interpol activity seems to be centered around arranging protection for a Japanese politician who’s coming to the wedding. Guy named Masayoshi Shido.” Futaba brought up a picture of the man on one of her screens. 

“The candidate for Japan’s prime minister?” Akira leaned forward to examine the man. He was bald, his smile too disconcertingly real to actually be real over a goatee, and wore the neat clothes that any member of the Diet would. The most garish thing about him were his orange shades. Someone must have told the man they looked cool. At least, Akira hoped someone had and that this man wasn’t making a conscious decision to wear orange sunglasses. The sunglasses did ring a bell, though Akira was unsure of why.

“The one and the same.” 

“The eff is he doing here?” Ryuji put down his chicken, leaning forward to glare at the screen. “Isn’t he the bastard who wants to revamp Japan and says everything’s broken?”

“He’s not here yet, Ryuji, he’s just coming.” Still, Ann also leans forward towards the screen. “And yes.” 

“Bad news,” was all Akira said, the back of his mind itching. He rubbed at the back of his neck to ward away the bad vibes. Shido’s face felt familiar for some reason, beyond the fact Shido was a famous politician. It unsettled Akira, those cold eyes and solemn expression promised nothing good. Shido unsettled Akira, and he didn’t like it. “Well, let’s keep that in our plans. Until then, we move forward with Operation Empress.” 

The rest of the thieves nodded. Eyes on the prize, focus on the goal. They had one princess to kidnap and the rest of the world to taunt. Complications would always happen. A good Phantom Thief planned for them, minimized them. A great phantom thief folded them into the plan.

Akira didn’t mean to run into Akechi at the party three days later. All things considered, it was a small party, one reserved for paparazzi and some of the big players, a set up so the journalists could see how happy the bride and groom-to-be were. Akira attached himself to the throng, his camera ready and active as the nobility and journalists mixed. The Okumuras stood at the head of the ballroom, a sun for the rest of the room to orbit. 

Haru Okumura stood tall in front of her chair, her back straight and unburdened. Her pink dress fell about her body in neat ruffles and straight lines, her fluffy hair haloing her head like a beacon. Behind her stood her bodyguard, a solemn, no nonsense woman with short, ear length brown hair and crimson eyes. Makoto Nijima was famous in the crime circuits for being competent, smart, and married to her job. As such, the Phantom Thieves recognized her as one of the greatest threats to the success of their plan, perhaps even greater than the man that stood beside them both. 

The man in question being Haru’s father. Kunikazu Okumura stood tall, proud, and dignified. His father, as beloved as he was, drove the monarchy into bankruptcy, and it fell to Kunikazu to restore what had been lost so long ago. You couldn’t tell how poor the monarchy had been a mere generation ago. Kunikazu’s ascot was of the finest silk, his suit so finely tailored that it was closer to a second skin than a separate entity, and his shoes shone brightly in the small ballroom. He smiled graciously whenever someone approached him, the lines about his eyes crinkling behind his glasses as pleasantries were exchanged. He outshone both his daughter and her fiance, a squalid young man whom most would call handsome if not for the way his mouth sat petulantly in the hidden moments. 

Akira didn’t bother to approach them. He worked as a photojournalist, not as an interviewer, and so he focused on what he did best: taking photographs. He takes photos of the guests. Of the room. Of Haru and her fiance. Of Okumura and the men who satellite around him, the businessmen and the nobility who circle him like planets orbiting a star. Of Akechi--

Of Goro Akechi? Akira turned his camera to the side, where hidden in the lee of a pillar the detective stood. He wore formal clothes as he talked with one of the wait staff, his hair falling softly about his face. Akira snapped a photograph and then a second, capturing Akechi’s fine but not fancy suit, his notepad out as he scratched out notes. The waiter shifted, her hand twisting the empty tray in a slow circle. Akira wondered what they could possibly be talking about to make such a look of dread linger on the waiter’s face. Did Akechi already know about the plan? Or was it something else? 

Before this party, Futaba ordered Akira to be smart. Ryuji told him to be daring. Ann reminded him that she also could gather information at one of the myriad other preparties that she’s attended in the past week and will attend in the coming weeks. But none of them witnessed Akechi in action, none of them were here to see Akechi bend towards the waiter with his lips curled in that oh so polite smile. 

Curiosity killed the cat; satisfaction brought it back. Akira wound his way through the crowd, through journalists talking to guests talking to journalists, taking photos all the way. No eyes followed him. After all, he was just a photographer. Plus, Akira found that the view was better here. The double delicately carved double doors sat in plain view beyond the royal family, and the journalists and guests spread out before Akira, mingling like a minefield of sharks. Akira snapped photos of it all, pausing to get pictures of the door and the room itself. This was where part of the reception would be, a room reserved for dancing on that glorious day and Akira knew his job well. Ann got to know the people and some of the topography. Akira learned the topography and some of the people. This room wouldn’t be terrible. The columns could provide shelter, and the windows behind Akira could provide a quick exit. This room wasn’t ideal, but the Phantom Thieves wouldn’t be so successful if they left everything to chance. They still needed to get into the chapel as well, which Akira knew he could sneak into on his way out. 

“What are you doing here?” Akechi’s voice cut through Akira’s observations. Akira swung his camera about, staring through the viewfinder at Akechi’s impassive face. 

“Taking photos?” Akira replied, his voice solemn. A lick of amusement bled into his sentence as he fought to keep his face straight. A hard battle indeed. 

The corners of Akechi’s politely smiling mouth turned down for a moment. “I can see that.”

“Oh good. I worried for a moment you couldn’t see.” Akira contemplated taking a picture of Akechi. He then contemplated his chances of survival and lowered the camera. “Did you need something detective? Something wrong with my tux?” 

Akira glanced down and tugged on his suit. It fit perfectly of course; Ann wouldn’t let Akira embarrass himself by venturing out in public without the appropriate costume. Akechi blinked slowly. 

“Your suit is fine,” the man said slowly, almost as if he was talking to a child. Thankfully, Akira knew that Akechi was talking to him, and took the condescension the way it was supposed to be taken: appreciatively. Akechi hid his scorn normally, so Akira always counted it as a point when he could make the detective break his mask, even a little. Which this totally counted as, in Akira’s opinion. 

“So what did you need then, detective? I imagine you’re far too busy to come talk to little old me.” 

“I didn’t think you were important enough to be invited to this.” 

Akira held a hand up to his heart, letting his bangs flop into his eyes. “You wound me. I assure you, detective, I am a hardworking photojournalist of medium renown.”

“Oh? I’ll have to look for some of your work, Mister…?” 

“Amamiya,” Akira supplied. He adjusted his glasses, forcing the barrier up higher so the light would catch the lenses and shield his gaze. “Ren Amamiya.” 

Akechi took the hand Akira proffered (An odd western tradition, but one that tended to point away from Akira’s Japanese roots) and shook it firmly. Akechi’s hands were warm, solid, and tapered to firm tips. Even through the black gloves Akechi wore, his fingers exuded strength, a threat to see justice done to the end. Akira definitely did not swoon internally. Definitely did not. 

“A pleasure to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…?” Akechi retrieved his hand and returned it to his side. He flexed his fingers, tapping them in a quick ratatat against his thigh.

“Of course. Sorry to detain you.” Akira stepped back and Akechi brushed past, plunging into the ground. Akira watched for a moment, before he lifted his camera once again to take photos. If Akechi ended up in a few as he waded through the crowd, it was no big deal. Especially as it would get Futaba information on why Akechi was here. 

Akira snuck away an hour before the end of the party. He wasn’t the only one. The party bled guests the later the hour got, and Akira took advantage to ooze his way out into the hallways of the castle and towards the chapel. The chapel was one of the oldest parts of the building, built when some of the first Christian missionaries came to Hoshi to evangelize. Nowadays, it wasn’t used for masses; its uses were reserved for official events like coronations, weddings, and deaths, and the occasional tour. The latter proved rare, and none were scheduled for the weeks leading up to Haru’s wedding. It left exploration up to a sneaking Akira. He padded through the shadows, sticking to the lesser hallways as he followed a mental map of the building. The thieves were still deciding when the best time to take Haru would be, and that meant learning about every location to judge its worth. 

Two guards stood outside the chapel doors, guns in their hands. Akira watched from around the corner. Odd to have security here, when no one was supposed to be here at all. Futaba hacked the security schedule herself, formatting into a form that Akira could plot off of. The room the party was in was on the opposite side of the palace, and no living quarters were located nearby. While it was understandable to want to keep out uninvited guests, there was no reason for these two guards to be so well armed. It screamed important in a way that no one could miss. But what was important about the chapel? According to the blueprints Futaba stole out of the government database, nothing attached to the chapel. There were some doors in the naves that led outside, but those were guarded as a matter of principal. After all, breaking a perimeter was a bad idea. But to have guards standing on the inside with two guns seemed…

Akira made a note in his head and mulled over his choices. This was the only internal door, the only way the chapel connected to the rest of the palace. The nave doors would also have security as they led to the outside, and there was only so much he could do. He didn’t have half of his kit (the downside of coming in a suit that wasn’t his work suit), and the chapel doors sat at a dead end. Armor did line the hall, so in theory Akira could sneak down, but how would he get past without them seeing?

Akira snuck a photo of the guards with the small camera Futaba gave him. There was something off about the chapel, enough that the hair on the back of his neck stood up in a way that only happened when a heist was about to go to hell in a very not fun way. Akira needed more information, he needed more backup, and they still had time. The wedding was still a month off. Maybe the rest of the thieves would have a better idea of how to breach the chapel when the guard shifts were changing or through another entry point. Discretion was the better part of valor and Akira knew his own limits. 

They didn’t. But it was also late when Akira returned, and Ann and Ryuji were cloistered in their own suite while Akira debriefed over the encrypted line Futaba set up. Yusuke was with Futaba and Akira, squinting out the window at something in the distance. Futaba flipped through Akira’s photos, humming the Featherman theme to herself. 

“It’s just a chapel, right?” Ryuji asked, sprawled out over the couch. Ann brushed her hair at the vanity behind, humming to herself. 

“Obviously not,” Futaba pinned one of pictures of a guest, a Representative Ooe, onto the bulletin board Akira procured for her and pinned a red string from him to Shido. She’d drawn horns onto the man’s bald head, and Akira added a forked tongue. The asymmetrical additions horrified Yusuke, and he’d attempted to correct the image. So now Shido had four horns and an oddly long tongue that suited a Lickitung more than a demon. Considering they’d only started making the board two days ago, Akira had high hopes for the artistic merits of this conspiracy board. 

Akira began to add little horns to Ooe on principle, leaning over Futaba’s shoulder to do so. He neatly dodged the string that led from Shido to Kunikazu Okumura and slowly drew on an s shaped monstrosity. “It was too well guarded for just a chapel. There has to be something in there.” 

“Maybe that’s why Akechi’s here,” Ann mused. She’d been at another party, a preparty held by a local socialite, mingling with the actors and actresses, the stars and the gossipers. “I talked with Risette a little. You know, the idol?” 

Everyone nodded. Risette was a household name, had been for ten years, a rare Japanese idol who transcended Japan and ascended to international stardom. “She had some interesting things to say while we were drinking champagne. Evidently, someone gave her change in shadow bills.” 

Yusuke of all people perked up at that, his languid eyes turning alert. “The counterfeit currency that is so real that it’s nearly if not completely indistinguishable from the genuine bill? Madarame…. Madarame told me of them years ago.” 

Ann nodded. “Yeah! She said she got really lucky because one of her security detail noticed it and they were able to track down the shop where it happened. But she also said the shop had no clue where the shadow bills came from either…”

The thieves fell silent as they contemplated Ann’s words. Only Futaba moved, sticking up a photo of another man, this one a television president that Akira photographed talking with Okumura. “Futaba, would you--” 

Futaba hmmed, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she stepped back to look at her handiwork. “I’ll look into it, but I can’t make any guarantees. No one has ever found the source of the shadow bills, and a whole lot of people have tried. Even Lucia hasn’t been able to find anything, and she’s the best hacker there is.“

“That’s good enough for me.” Akira nodded, rising to his feet. The rest of the thieves watched him, their eyes following him as he stretched, as his smile slowly widened into a smirk with each word he spoke. “Well, there’s obviously more going on here than meets the eye. Akechi’s prowling, money’s flying, and the palace is already on high alert. We haven’t even sent our calling card yet. Rude of them really.”

Akira shook his head before he continued. “Anyways, our main goal isn’t these shadow bills. It’s Haru Okumura and her freedom. So let’s find a way to scout out that chapel and figure out the best day for a theft so we can teach Kunikazu Okumura and the world a lesson about familial love. Who’s with me?” 

The rest of the Phantom Thieves cheered. Akira thumbed his nose and winked at his team. “And maybe we’ll even impress Ake--”

Futaba beaned Akira with the sofa pillow before he could finish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, thank you all for your warm reception of my first chapter. I was so nervous to post it and I got such lovely comments and so many kudos. I hope this fic continues to live up to expectations. I've got the next chapter about 2/3rds finished, so I hope to post it in the next two weeks or so. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have any questions! Otherwise, I hope to see you next time.


	3. How could anyone enter, and, moreover, how could anyone escape, leaving behind him a bolted door and a fastened window?

_“How could anyone enter, and, moreover, how could anyone escape, leaving behind him a bolted door and a fastened window?”_  
\--Maurice Leblanc 

The Phantom Thieves worked because they planned. They investigated, they worked hard. They rustled out secrets and buried truths, pursued justice with their entire hearts. So while Akira declared that Haru was their main focus, he couldn’t help but be curious about the shadow bills. The money was legendary in the underground and on the dark web. Futaba pulled out website after website, detailing how the shadow bills were incomparable. American dollars, the euro, the yen, the yuan, any legal bill was fair game for the maker of the shadow bills. They circulated the globe over, and it shouldn’t be shocking to find them in Hoshi.

Hoshi was a tourist trap, after all. A place where money mixed and flowed between currencies, between people. But there was a difference here. Other places found shadow bills rarely, and when they were found, they were usually in giant amounts, an undistributed hoard. A clot in the supply line, so to speak. But here in Hoshi, the reports were hushed up, the small incidents swept under the rug. They were small too. Twenty American dollars, five hundred yen. Small drips out of a capillary, as if someone missed a shaving cut on their chin. 

Akira pondered it while drinking the third worst coffee he’d ever had in his life, following a tour guide through the palace. It was another chance to learn the layout and a chance to find a better way into the chapel. This tour didn’t go anywhere near the chapel; the tour guide cited wedding preparations. Akira smelled a lie. 

He’d grabbed the coffee at what looked like a reputable cafe and regretted it. Sojiro would have a heart attack if he knew what Akira was drinking as he listened to the tour guide speak about the history of the royal palace. Haru’s great, great, great, some ridiculous amount of great grandfather ordered it built, starting with the chapel. The Catholic missionaries evidently left a giant impact on him, and even if the family lapsed over the coming generations, the chapel stood tall and proud, a testimony to the man’s faith. The rest of the palace was built around it, encircling it like a mother’s arms cradled a child, and it would have been poetic if Akira didn’t face the thorny knot of how to infiltrate it for information. 

The tour guide milled beneath an oil painting of Haru’s grandfather, a solemn worn old man who stared out at the world with the same eyes as Haru. Akira assessed it, the brush strokes, the paint. True skill lingered here, in the dark purples of the shadows, in the haunted fawn of the man’s eyes. “And that is why only the chapel is regularly examined for damage and for wear. No one wants one of the nation’s oldest treasures to be lost to the ravages of time…”

“How often is that done,” Akira asked, hiding behind another man. The tour guide smiled brightly at the human shield, clasping her hands together. 

“The inspections are held monthly. His majesty wastes no expense on his heritage, especially now that Hoshi’s fortunes are looking so bright! Now, as we continue down the portrait gallery, let us look for the picture of his majesty’s great grandmother. She was famous for…” The tour guide drifted on and the crowd followed in her wake. Akira stayed in the middle, and texted Futaba about what he’d learned.   
He almost missed Makoto Nijima disappear down a hallway. She walked forward in a pace that ruffles her straight hair, her suit neatly pressed, her service weapon holstered at her side. Akira noticed the lack of Haru more than anything else. The princess and her bodyguard were nigh inseparable, a constant pair even in professional photographs. Haru, all soft skirts and fluffy hair and her solemn shadow Makoto, all strict suits and flashing eyes, dominated the photos of the royal family that Kunikazu is not in. When Haru went to Oxford for college, Makoto followed, and when she came home, Makoto came with. The fact that Makoto was alone struck Akira as odd, and he slowly fell to the back of the group before he detached completely to ghost down the hallway. 

After all, tourists get lost all of the time. There had to be a bathroom around here somewhere, right? Akira smirked to himself and padded softly after Makoto. He thankfully didn’t have to go far. Makoto’s voice echoed out of a room halfway down the alcove lined hall, and Akira slipped behind a Grecian statue in the alcove next to the door. The wall muffled the conversation, but if Akira pushed his ear against the cold wood, he could hear decently enough. 

“...is supposed to arrive three days before the wedding and leave the day after. The schedule is almost completely set, and his majesty will definitely take him on a tour of the facilities two days before. If you want to follow them, I will let you in. But you have to hold up your end of the deal.” 

“Niijima, I am a man of my word. When have I ever broken a promise?” Akira tamped down the smile that threatened to emerge when Akechi drawled quietly. 

A pause followed, and Akira could imagine Makoto bowing her head. “I didn’t mean to imply--” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Akechi replied airily. “In any case, thank you. I’ll contact you if I need anything else in preparation. I trust you’ll do the same.” 

“Yes. Do you have--” Makoto’s voice stopped. Akechi must have whatever she asked for, for she didn’t resume the sentence. 

“Now, if you excuse me, I’ll be off. It would be odd for you to be away from her highness, wouldn’t it? You really should work on that.” Akechi chuckled low a second later, a chuckle that anyone else would consider ugly, but mostly made Akira think that the game was about to start, which sent a tingle down his spine. Akira should probably talk to someone about that. Not Futaba, she’d die laughing. Definitely not Ryuji, he’d freak. Ann…? No she’d tell Futaba, and then they’d both laugh at Akira while eating ice cream or something. 

Maybe Yusuke. Maybe. If Yusuke was painting, then he wouldn’t really notice and would make little affirmation sounds if Akira was lucky. 

Akira made a note to talk to Yusuke at a later date to get some moral support. 

Makoto emerged, striding down the hallway the way she came without stopping. A small bag was tucked under her arm, something that for anyone else would pass as a purse. It’s almost out of place on Makoto, an accessory the bodyguard would never carry. Akira memorized the dimensions, committing the small leather bag to memory as Makoto strode out of sight. 

He waited for Akechi. A minute passed, then two, then ten. Akira remained hidden behind the statue, running through his thoughts. A deal between Makoto Niijima and Goro Akechi. Access to someone arriving a week before the wedding, which meant a major dignity. The lesser guests were already assembled, the people like Ann and Risette who would entertain the others who arrive later and same for the common folk who would help decorate and prepare the island for the celebration. That was how these sort of things run. 

But if Akechi was waiting for someone to arrive the week before, someone who would be getting a tour from his majesty… that changed things. It didn’t sound like this person was merely getting a tour of the palace. They were getting something more, something that Akira didn’t know about. Something that made Akira uneasy, a twist that the thieves don’t know. That made everything more difficult. 

Being a thief meant that you don’t know everything. It was a job hazard. But you try to know the big things, the security systems, the people involved, the people not involved, the layout of the building, the location of the item you want to take. You planned with them in mind, to try to avoid the big traps and to work through the little ones. 

Whatever this was that Akechi was looking into sounded like a major complication. Akira knew that Akechi wouldn’t be here without a reason. Akechi talked sometimes on the Interpol interviews about his work schedule, about his life and hobbies. Akechi always was up front about how he didn’t take vacations unless ordered, about how he works and works and works. Akira would say that sounds exhausting, but Akira knew that he was similar. If he wasn’t planning a heist, he was carrying it out, and if he wasn’t carrying out a heist, he was taking photographs and if he wasn’t taking photographs, he was helping Sojiro at LeBlanc. In high school, Akira juggled four or five jobs and school with ease and his life hasn’t changed that much since then. 

Akechi wouldn’t be here on a vacation. Akechi was here for work, and whatever this thing with Makoto Niijima was, it sounded like work. 

Fifteen minutes and no sign of Akechi. No sound came from the room, or at least no sound that Akira could hear through the wall. Akira stretched and slipped out of the alcove after making sure no one was in the area. He sidled over to the door and cracked the door open. It was a small study, more an office than a parlor, and Akira slid in. A desk dominated one side with an old computer and chairs sat opposite of the desk. Small paintings of landscapes hung on the walls by an old bookcase built into the wall, along with a few scattered wall candelabras that are weighed down by overly large candles. The entire room screamed boring rich person room.

It was also empty. The door never opened after Makoto left, and Akechi didn’t leave Makoto. There was no other door in here, which left only one option as Akira was 95 percent sure that Akechi can’t teleport. Secret passage. 

Sometimes, Akira loved the sheer ridiculousness of the rich and their insistence on making their houses as convoluted as possible. If a secret passage led into here, then one had to lead into the chapel. It was the oldest part of the palace, built by one of the richest kings of Hoshi; it had to have a secret passage somewhere. It would be like having a birthday party without a birthday cake: intolerable and stupid. 

Akira tugged on the candelabras. He thought about going for a book first, but the bookcase struck him as being the door into the passage rather than an opening mechanism. The third candelabra, the one furthest from the door, turned out to be the switch. Akira pulled on it, the bookcase clicked and slid open on well oiled hinges. Akira lifted a brow; while secret passages weren’t unusual in rich houses, well maintained ones were. He made a note in the back of his mind and quickly trundled over. 

The passage was barely large enough for Akira to stand in. He popped his head into the brick lined tunnel and glanced down either way. No sign of Akechi; he must be long gone. Akira pondered for a moment; should he explore today, or come back another day? The tour guide won’t miss him, not one person in a nameless mass, and they didn’t take down faces along with the names. A glaring oversight, really. But Akira also didn’t have all of his tools on him and was in his civilian gear, which would make an infiltration hard if something went wrong. Akira was bold, but not that bold. He knew his limits. Sort of. He knew that he had them, somewhere. 

So. What to do? 

Akira stepped into the passage and flipped out his phone to shine a light in the passage. He found the lever soon enough, the one that would shut the wall, and flicked it. The bookcase swung silently back into place, and Akira flicked off his phone. He waited a minute while his eyes adjusted, and then he contemplated his choices. Right or left. In theory, the left led out. If Akira recalled correctly and oriented himself correctly, that way led away from the innermost sanctum of the chapel. The right led towards the heart of the palace. 

He wasn’t not ready to explore the chapel yet. But Akira was ready to find another way into the palace for easier infiltration and easier extrication, and so Akira went left. He mapped out each step he took in his head, commiting the twists and turns to memory. There weren’t many; that office must have been more important in the past, for this corridor did not attach to many rooms. Or perhaps it was the gallery entrance, a way for people to get into the art gallery and out. 

Even unlit, Akira could tell the tunnels are maintained. The floors were clean and no debris lined the walls. It all remained a respectable brick and mortar, never once giving way to dirt, which Akira tucked in the back of his head. Well maintained usually meant well used, and well used meant other people. 

Footsteps echoed in the distance. Akira pressed himself against the mortar, cocking his head to listen. They faded into the distance, and Akira waited just a bit longer to exhale. It was almost a relief to emerge into the shadow of the palace walls ten minutes later behind the statue of the first king. Akira thanked the former king for their pretentiousness of littering their visage everywhere, and took stock of where he was. 

It took him a mere moment to identify that he'd emerged on the west side and a second longer to find the lever hidden in the king’s heel. He tried the lever again, and the door reopened. A viable entrance. 

Akira couldn’t help his smirk.

\----------------

Futaba folded the information about Akechi’s target into their quickly growing corkboard. “Three days before and the day after, huh…?” The post it note was added under the corner of Akechi’s Goal, the first item to be added to said category. Futaba nodded to herself and swung back to her computer to run the lists. “It’ll take a little while to compile the guest list. And I checked the palace blueprints, both the public and unlisted versions. Neither have the secret tunnels.”

Akira nodded, sorting through the pictures he took the other day. He picked out some for the Tokyo papers, a few for his American papers, and a few for the European papers he liked. The gossip columns always needed some dirt, some photos, and Akira chose the ones that wouldn’t implicate him in international thievery. “I can make some forays in, make some maps. I bet there’s a passage up to the royal quarters.” 

“Yeah probably right into Kunikazu’s room.” Ryuji said as he came into the room with dinner. He dropped off Akira’s noodles and then Futaba’s ramen before he collapsed on the sofa with his own meat dish. “Give him an effin’ fright.” 

“I’d be careful,” Akira protested, cracking the wooden chopsticks apart. “How little do you think of me?” 

“You’re very good,” Futaba said in a way that clearly meant that she’s agreeing with Ryuji. 

“I am alone.” Akira shook his head and dove into his noodles. The noodles will never say anything to betray him. “Not even my sister believes in me. Oh, woe is the day...” 

“You’re fine, you big baby. You don’t have to ham everything up, you already saw Akechi today.” Futaba ignored Akira’s sputter and started slurping down her ramen. “If we attach a GPS to you we can map out the tunnels safely.”

“Tunnefs?” Ryuji swallowed the hunk of meat. “Tunnels?”

“Yeah there’s a shlode of tunnels beneath the palace,” Futaba said. 

“Effing rich people with their fancy tunnels…” Ryuji shook his head. “Good for us though. Another way to get Haru out. Where’s the exit?” 

Akira informed Ryuji, who scrunched up his brow. “Not bad, not bad. Easy enough to position a car near there, and get away. People won’t look twice at a delivery van, and there’s plenty of those around because of the wedding. How’d you find ‘em anyways?”

“He was eavesdropping on Niijima and his crush.” Futaba ignored the withering look Akira sent her way, instead typing something into the computer. “Speaking of which, it looks like only our old friend Shido matches the dates you found.” 

Akira pushed away the unease that rose when he glanced over at Shido’s defaced portrait. Something about the man was familiar, but Akira couldn’t say what exactly. He knew the man from the elections, from the news that Sojiro liked to play in LeBlanc, but it was all impersonal. Akira never met the man, and yet… And yet a bad taste rose in Akira’s mouth. 

“Niijima? The bodyguard?” 

“Yes, Ryuji, the bodyguard.” Akira pulled himself back into the conversation, giving himself a mental smack about the head. Now was not the time for melancholy. Now was the time for action! “She and Akechi were talking.”

Ryuji paused. “How do they know each other? ‘N why do they care about Shido? He’s just the prime minister dude.”

“Candidate,” Futaba corrected. “And I’m gonna look it up. How they know each other. I don’t know why they care about Shido.” 

“He’s probably done something illegal,” Ryuji said, nodding to himself.

“He’s a politician, of course he’s done something illegal. Now let me do some digging.” Futaba huffed. Ryuji and Akira caught each other’s eye and shrugged before digging into their food. Yusuke wandered in covered in paint not too long later. Somehow, he’d gotten an invite to the wedding as well in the last day and can’t explain how beyond a long story about running into a man stuck in a tree and a missing paintbrush. Futaba immediately set off to research the man Yusuke rescued. While she did that, Yusuke worked on his paintings, one being a gift for Haru and Haru alone as he now needed a gift, while the rest were paintings of the palace exterior. No one questioned an artist while they worked after all, or at least, Yusuke never heard the questions. 

Nevertheless, Ryuji and Yusuke settled into conversation and then into a vicious round of MarioKart after dinner, leaving Futaba to work and Akira to his thoughts. How did Akechi know Makoto Niijima? What sort of information was Akechi giving to her in exchange for the location of Masayoshi Shido? 

Akira didn’t like mysteries. He didn’t like untangling mysteries; he preferred to do the tangling so other people (like Akechi) had to deal with the knots. He liked games and competitions, but he wasn’t a detective. Heists were problems to be solved, items to be liberated, and injustices to be brought to light. They weren’t tangled political schemes to be unraveled and broken apart. The thieves didn’t do political thefts as a rule. It was a slippery slope; steal for one government figure and you end up stealing for all of them or worse, you ended up favoring a side and people considered you a tool. And that didn’t even take into account politicians.

Akira shivered at the thought. Since he was a teen, Akira avoided politicians. Oh, he stole from them, humiliated them on an international stage and revealed their secrets, but he never did so out of personal distaste. Learning those secrets came with the territory. After all, people came to the Phantom Thieves with the secrets, or enough of a lead to expose the local dirty laundry. It wasn’t uncommon for completely unrelated scandals to pop up during the Thieves’ activities. No, that usually was Akechi’s purview, as he ripped apart the victim’s lives in an attempt to find how the Phantom Thieves operated and bring them to justice. 

Akechi was the one who dealt with politics, who dealt with the unexpected secrets popping out after the thefts. Akira knew his role in Akechi’s life; Akira was the match, and Akechi was the flame. Akira struck, and Akechi ignited, burned down the injustices that the thieves couldn’t. Sometimes, Akira felt bad. Sometimes, Akira wished he could do more. But he knew how powerless he was. When he was younger, he’d been arrested for stopping an assault. The police didn’t believe him, hadn’t believed him, or if they had, the other man had more money or more clout, more everything. At this point, over a decade later, it didn’t matter. Akira would not, could not, work with the police. His justice was extrajudicial, a light in the darkness. A place to go when all else failed.

Akira could not fathom how Akechi could work within the system to bring justice like he did. To arrest the politicians, the rich, the well connected who would normally escape justice completely. 

Sometimes, Akira just wanted to set them all on fire. But he couldn’t, so he listened to the poor, the downtrodden, the ones that society pushed flat into the dirt until their mouths were full of sorrow and despair, and he did what they asked of him. He stole jewels, art, stories, lives. Akira set up the untouchable to be burned down by Akechi, and then he went home to LeBlanc and watched the inferno. 

Akira hadn’t found an injustice of this magnitude in years. Whatever is going on with Shido, it was big. Gigantic really, if Akechi was operating on his own without orders from Interpol. What about Masayoshi Shido drove Goro Akechi to step outside of Interpol’s gilded halls and into the muck, into secret deals with Makoto Niijima? Into the underbelly of Hoshi? 

Now that, that was a mystery that seemed more like Akira’s style. A challenge that Akira could tackle. After all, it involved his dear rival Akechi. Akira couldn’t just leave him hanging like that; it would be rude. Akira shifted, leaning back in his seat. “Hey Futaba. Where’s Akechi staying again?” 

Her eyes flicked away from the screen. “What are you planning?” 

Ryuji and Yusuke don’t notice. Ryuji was too busy yelling at Yusuke to stop admiring Rainbow Road and to actually drive to realize that Akira said anything. “Information gathering.”

“You’re going to get caught. Akechi isn’t stupid you know.” 

Akira smiled his most innocent smile. “I know. But he’s up to something and I want to know what he’s doing.” 

“Want to know or need to know?” 

Akira didn’t break eye contact with his sister in all but blood. “Need,” he said simply. 

Futaba shook her head, her orange hair flopping about her face, pinned only by her glasses and her headphones. “If you get arrested, I’m not bailing you out of jail.” 

“Yes, you will. You’d love the challenge.” Akira laughed at Futaba’s groan, propping his cheek upon his hand. “Besides, someone needs to talk to Akechi to figure out what he’s doing here. You’ve got enough stuff on your plate and it’s too risky to expose any of the other thieves.” 

“You don’t have to justify your thirst, you know. It’s not a good look on you.” Akira sputtered and Futaba continued. “But you aren’t wrong. I’ll give it to you in the morning so you don’t do anything dumb tonight.” 

Akira hated that Futaba knew him this well. “Thank you Futaba~” 

“Just finish your food and stop mooning.” Futaba grumbled something under her breath, quiet enough that not even Akira can hear it. He was a good elder brother though, so he’d let that slide. Instead, he turned around to watch the MarioKart game. 

Maybe Yusuke would finish his first lap soon.

\----------------

Akechi’s motel was located on the outskirts of the capital. There were three cafes around it that could potentially be one fourth as good as LeBlanc. This was Akira’s expert opinion and no, he was not biased at all. Sojiro would teleport straight from Tokyo and box his ears if Akira went easy on any of the cafes. Sometimes, Akira wondered what Akechi would think of LeBlanc. He knew that Akechi has a caffeine addiction to some degree. While the stereotype of cops and donuts and coffee was mostly just a stereotype, there were some members of the force who do live up to it. Akira had done enough investigation into Akechi’s crime scene habits to know that Akechi did favor a cup when faced with larger cases.

Maybe he’d even sent a few to the detective. Who knew?

(Futaba knew. She always knew and she tucked the information in the back of her head to use at just the right time. Brutally unfair, in Akira’s opinion, but as Futaba often informed him, Akira’s opinion in these matters didn’t count.)

In any case, Akira couldn’t invite Akechi to his home. Too risky. Instead of belaboring the thought, Akira picked up a coffee at the cafe closest to Akechi’s motel and took it to a window seat to watch for his target. He abandoned his camera, snug in its case, upon the table, an excuse for Akechi if their paths did cross. The mug heated his hands, the fine porcelain well cared for. Crowds flowed by the window, a sea of people that Akira didn’t know and will never know. Once, crowds like this overwhelmed Akira. Back when he first came to Tokyo, when all he’d known was tiny Inaba. But that was years ago, and there were more important things to worry about. 

Things like whether or not Akechi would actually come to this cafe for caffeine. If there was anything worse than cafe coffee, it was the complimentary motel breakfast coffee. As this was the nearest cafe, it would be the easiest to access, but it could also be the worst coffee ever. Considering yesterday’s brew by the palace, that would be hard to accomplish. But Akira knew weirder things had happened, and so he braced himself as he took a sip. 

A tad oversteeped, the beans only mildly threatened by burning. A stock choice of beans, a safe choice, but sufficient. Tolerable. Sojiro would hate it. Tolerable was the lowest bar, the worst bar. Akira can see Sojiro standing here, his brow furrowed as he shook his head. This cup was the cup of coffee Akira brewed when he first moved out to Tokyo, when Sojiro was more jailer than parental figure. He could almost hear Sojiro pointing out every error from bean choice to water temperature, and if Akira closed his eyes, he could almost hear…

“Amamiya?” 

Akira jerked his eyes open, his frown transforming into a smile when he recognized who stood over him. Jackpot. And he didn’t even have to do anything. Truly, it was better to be lucky than good. “Why hello there detective! How’re you today?” 

Akechi stood tall, his coffee in a traveler’s mug. Not a single hair stuck out of place on the detective’s head, a stark contrast to the mass that rented the space on top of Akira’s. No badge sat visible on the detective’s neatly pressed outfit, but it didn’t need to. The composed slope of Akechi’s shoulders informed anyone who would look that this was a man accustomed to being an authority figure, and the solemn set of his eyes asked questions that Akira cheerfully ignored. 

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” His eyes dropped down to the coffee between Akira’s hands and then over to the camera. “How goes your photography?” 

“Very well. Do you want to join me for a bit? I’m trying out this coffee before I go out for more photographs.” Akira propped his head upon his hand and stared up at Akechi. At this angle, the light caught on his glasses and obscured the nuance in his eyes. Not quite a challenge, but almost. 

They weighed each other. Akechi’s eyes picked Akira apart, from the frayed jeans and casual shirt and blazer Akira wore to the camera sitting innocently on the table, to the coffee in Akira’s hands. Akechi’s face didn’t twitch, not even a single muscle. Akira felt more than saw the gears turning in Akechi’s head, before the man inclined his head. 

“You seem to be a busy man, Amamiya. I looked up some of your past work.” His fingers curled about the wood of the chair back and lifted it, pulling it out far enough to slide neatly into it without making any extraneous noise. Akechi made only a small click when he set his tumbler down, his eyes focused fully on Akira. 

“Oh? What did you think?” Akira was not here for small talk, but he also wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for compliments. 

“Satisfactory for your profession,” Akechi said blandly, and Akira tilted his head. 

“But?” he prodded. 

“But certainly not the best. I understand now why I haven’t heard of you.” There it was, the hint of viciousness hiding in the shadows of Akechi’s eyes. 

Akira held his hand up to his heart. “I’m absolutely wounded. I might never recover.” 

“I expect you will. You seem like the type to bounce back.” Akechi took a prim sip, and Akira laughed in his head at the way Akechi’s nose wrinkled. 

“Any advice from the great Interpol detective? I’m sure you have an opinion.” 

“Photography isn’t one of my pursuits. Something I’m sure you’re aware of if you’re aware of me.” Akechi tilted his head and smiled. Not a true smile. Maybe the folks on television thought it was true, but Akira sensed the teeth, sensed that if he didn’t twist the conversation soon, Akechi might leave and that would be a travesty. 

They were only just getting started after all. “Oh, of course. But I’d thought you’d have an opinion nevertheless.” Akira sipped his coffee, his features neutral. He couldn’t afford to get too theatrical here. It wasn’t not the right time. “In any case, I’m honored you would look into me. I never thought I’d catch the eye of a personage like yourself. I’m sure you have much better things to do.” 

“Oh, not too much. It’s rather peaceful here and I am on vacation.” 

“Is it? It feels like a mob’s escaped.” Akira glanced out at the crowds, at the thick press of people that was almost worse than Tokyo before returning to Akechi’s piercing eyes. Akira had never been flayed alive before, but there was always a first time. Akira blinked. By the time his eyes reopened, Akechi’s eyes had gentled. 

“Yes. It is.” Akechi said serenely, a tone that never reached his eyes or the corners of his lips. Akira had never sat so close to the detective prince. The even tone was fascinating in the same way a car crash was, the way that Akechi never betrayed the irritation Akira knew lingered under Akechi’s skin. After causing a good chunk of said irritation, Akira knew it never went away. 

“Well in that case, how’s your coffee? Mine’s….” Akira made a so-so motion, wobbling his hand back and forth. Akechi said vacation, but even if Akira doubted it before, he doubted it even more now. The lying face meant Akechi was lying in part, but was he lying about vacation or about Hoshi being peaceful? Futaba never found any trace of Akechi getting approved time off, but sitting here across from Akechi, smiling, picture perfect Akechi, Akira suspected that Akechi files most of his paperwork physically now. So whatever mission he was on, official or otherwise, was off the books and Akechi was lying to strangers about it.

“It’s certainly something,” Akechi agreed. He took a sip, and his lip curled in distaste. Akira eyed him, hidden behind his glasses. 

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it you know.” Akechi lifted an eyebrow at Akira, and Akira laughed. “You wrinkled your nose earlier when you took your first sip.”

“Rather observant, aren’t you?” 

Akira smirked. “I’m a photojournalist. If I don’t notice, I don’t eat.” 

“Fair enough. Though to return to an earlier topic, I do have a question about one of your jobs in France from a few years ago. I noticed you took some interesting photos of older mansions in the countryside…”

It was surprisingly easy to talk to Akechi, even if he was in television mode. Opinions leaked out of him like water out of a sieve and Akira lapped them up like a starving cat. He had never talked to Akechi outside of a heist. There was never been an opportunity to be this close for this long, and Akira relished the chance to pick Akechi’s brain. His coffee, while tolerable, was slowly consumed as they talked about various things like the island, art, coffee, and chess. Waste not, want not, and it was after noon by the time Akechi rose from his seat. 

“Thank you for your time Amamiya, but I must be off. Things to do.” The cafe rumbled about him, people flowing in and out with their drinks and snacks in hand without ever touching the detective. Somehow, Akechi managed to maintain a bubble about him. 

Akira stretched as he rose to his feet, his arms reaching high over his head as he cracked out the kinks in his joints. He sat for entirely too long. It was worth it though. “Same. Things to photograph, people to talk to.” 

Akechi nodded and began to turn before he paused. “You’ll be here through the wedding?” 

“Yep.” Akira waited, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Why?” 

Akechi rooted around in a pocket before pulling out a cell phone. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but you seem to be an expert on coffee. Would you be interested in exploring a few more cafes during your time here? My superiors inform me that vacations are for relaxing, and I know of no better way than finding a good cup. As you seem to be an expert...”

“Sure.” Akira pulled his own phone out of his blazer pocket. “What’s your number?” 

They exchanged numbers and Akira permitted himself to dance in his head. But not in reality. Akira couldn’t lie his way out of that sort of weirdness. Instead, he allowed himself a small smile as Akechi walked out of the cafe and disappeared into the sea of people. His phone buzzed a moment later with a text from Akechi’s number. 

If you have an idea for the day after tomorrow, I would not object. I have some previous obligations for tomorrow.

Akira smirked and resisted the urge to pump his fist. He couldn’t wait to tell--

God, he was going to have to tell Futaba. Akira grabbed his camera and picked up his mug to take it to the used dishes bin. He’s going to have to come up with…

His phone went off again, this time blaring out a short, familiar Featherman ringtone. Akira glances down and reads the notification. Nerd. 

Akira was really going to have to come up with a good story for Futaba. And maybe a bribe. A couple bribes. What sort of stores were on Hoshi anyways? And he’d have to take some good photographs to keep up his cover story about being a photojournalist. And he’d have to figure out how to map the tunnels without running into anyone or blowing his cover. Akira dumped the mug into the bin and trotted off. 

So much to do, so little time. He’d had enough fun for today anyways, and he’ll have more fun in two days as long as Akechi’s word holds true. Which it will; Akechi always kept his promises, like his promise to be a thorn in Akira’s side and to serve justice and the law. Akira sallied out the door and let the crowd consume him and his tracks.

Time to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks have certainly flown by! I've been having fun playing Strikers, and I hope that everyone else has had a chance to enjoy the fun. Still, I've been doing my best to continue writing, and since I reached the halfway point of the next chapter, I can post this one. I have to keep my momentum for writing up, you see. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos! All of the comments are so sweet as well, they really warm my heart. They give me a fire to keep going * ^ * I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as you've enjoyed the previous two. If you have any questions please leave a comment. :3
> 
> Otherwise, remember to take care of yourselves! Drink some water, straighten your back, get some food. I'll see you all at the end of the next chapter!


End file.
